


It takes hours, it takes an age

by beepbeepsan



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Blood and Violence, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Groundhog Day, Historical Inaccuracy, Not Beta Read, Pre-Slash, References to Depression, Religion, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop, historical inaccuracy not intentional but likely, meet cute on the battlefield, meet ugly, sky as a recurring theme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29952885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beepbeepsan/pseuds/beepbeepsan
Summary: On Nicolò’s first day of battle, he kills a man and is killed by him in turn. But somehow he wakes the next morning, unharmed, only to find that today is yesterday, and both he and his killer yet live. God must have a purpose for Nicolò; he must relive the same day again and again until he completes his holy mission. He does not intend to fail.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. The First Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Nicolò goes to war, he dies on the first day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am joining the fandom pretty late, I know. But this story is complete! I will be posting every couple of days as I finish the last tweaks.
> 
> Given the groundhog’s day theme, the canon immortality looks a little different in this story; there’s no instant healing / coming back to life. Where this fic leaves off, regular canon can then pick back up—so in that sense it’s canon-compliant.
> 
> The story is from Nicolò’s perspective and involves quite a bit of religious introspection and praying as he struggles with his purpose in the Crusades. I have taken bits and pieces of bible passages and psalms to help shape the story—I was originally raised Catholic in the USA, but I don’t consider myself religious, and I am by no means a religious academic. This story is not intended to be religious commentary or negative/positive towards any religion, but it explores Nicolò’s relationship with religion in the context of the Crusades and a never-ending day of war.
> 
> I did my best with the translations, quotations, and historical accuracy (you would not believe how much research I did for trivial details). Some of Nicolò’s dialogue is in modern Italian since I didn’t find a better way to get medieval Genoese; same thing with using Dutch instead of Old Dutch, etc. For his prayers, I decided to use the Latin Vulgate (how do I find out what a priest in Genoa would have prayed in around 1100? believe me, I tried). But anyway, hopefully you get the drift, and please do tell me if something is inaccurate; depending on the severity I may or may not change it (unless it’s offensive, in which case I will of course correct it).
> 
> Enjoy!

It takes hours, the first time. 

Nicolò fights to keep his eyes open as black creeps into the edges of his vision. The sky is so blue. He stares up into its vastness, barely aware anymore of the lifeblood streaming from his chest. His ears are deaf to the screams and the clashing of metal. His hand is numb where it grips his sword hilt; Nicolò had clung to it so tightly as he toppled backwards that he pulled it back out of his killer's chest. Now he lies in the muck, sword in hand, having surely killed his enemy in the same way as he himself is killed. 

Killing his enemy does not take hours. It barely takes any time at all. Just enough for a lunge; for his sword to sink into flesh and for his flesh to yield to a sword; for his wild green eyes to meet wide brown ones over crossed blades. 

As he watches the unending sky, thoughts float through Nicolò’s weakening consciousness like wisps of cloud. Had the enemy soldier also kept his grip on his weapon, he wonders. He remembers what the foreign blade felt like entering his body, and what it felt like tearing back out as he fell. But he has eyes only for the sky, now; he cannot turn his head to search the nearby ground for the man who slayed him. He lies still and wonders if they lie side by side with matching wounds, spilling red from their bodies, staring at the peaceful blue sky with each other's deaths in their hands. 

This man was his first kill. Last, as well, for Nicolò will not survive today. This he knows with an unshakable certainty, with the crushing weight of inevitability—be it destiny, be it God’s will,  _ deus vult _ . And yet, strangely, he cannot find room for fear. Acceptance presses his heavy body into the soil until he must expend all his remaining strength just to keep his eyes from closing. Death, he accepts, but he does not want to go in darkness. 

At least he has avenged himself. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps he has done his duty, however seemingly insignificant, in this holy war. Perhaps Nicolò does not need to take Jerusalem, and his only remaining concern is to watch the sky and pray the blue does not fade away before he does. 

And perhaps God hears him and grants him this last prayer, because the sky is still just as bright and heavenly when Nicolò feels himself slipping away. The haze suddenly closes in much faster, his vision tunneling despite his efforts, until the brilliant blue is only a pinprick. Even so, he wishes he could lie on his back and watch that tiny piece of sky for just a little while longer. 

Then, nothing. 

Dying does not take hours. Dying takes only a minute; two, at most.

It is returning from death that takes hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the cycle begins…


	2. Salvus Eris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: You will be saved. From Romans 10:9. 
> 
> To his surprise, Nicolò wakes on the battlefield.

The sky is the first thing Nicolò sees when he is reborn. Blue, still, but not the brilliant, rich color that was his final living sight; this sky is cold and pale. He blinks slowly against the brightness, eyelashes binding his eyelids together with a coating of grime. The sky is still here.  _ Nicolò _ is still here. Where is here? 

Is this heaven? He cannot imagine a heaven without a sky. Strange, though. He would have expected the sky in heaven to be vibrant and shining. Instead it feels dull. Unwelcoming. 

Hearing returns to him with the familiar sound of a horse snorting. The noise brings Nicolò back to his body all at once. He jerks, suddenly aware of the hard-packed earth beneath him, the ache in his fingers, and a lingering pain in his chest. He sits up slowly with the aid of his left hand; his right is still holding his sword tightly. Upright, he looks around. 

He was mistaken. This is not heaven. This must be hell. 

Nicolò sits in a sea of carnage. Bodies of men and horses lie torn and still, painted with dried, flaking blood and reeking in the heat of the early morning. Many wear helmets and surcoats of familiar styles, but even more are dressed strangely, to Nicolò’s eyes. The enemy he had heard so much about and only just came to face—was it yesterday? The bodies lie atop each other, the familiar and the new blending together beneath layers of sand and blood and shit. 

The sight shocks him. Is this what war looks like? Nicolò knew war meant death. He knew so many had died before him and many would die after. But the reality of hell was beyond his comprehension, before. Now he sits in it, living and breathing amongst the dead—and there is no dignity or glory sitting next to him. 

He hears the horse again and tears his gaze away from the nearest body, which is almost torn in half. The horse is close by, at the head of a crude wooden cart that is barely more than a sheet of wood with wheels. 

A man in a tattered and stained surcoat is dragging a dead soldier up onto the cart. He drops the body carelessly and looks up, catching sight of Nicolò. “Bon matin!” he calls out in French.  _ Good morning!  _

Struck dumb by such a bizarrely commonplace greeting amidst so hellish a landscape, Nicolò can only stare. 

“You survived the night,” the soldier says, smiling easily at Nicolò even as he heaves another body into the cart. “You must be blessed, my friend.” 

Nicolò has no response to that. His gaze flicks away, moving from dead body to dead body, endless corpses scattered over a bloody battlefield. It is hard to believe a blessing could be found anywhere near this place. 

“Perhaps you will survive the war,” the Frank continues, “if you only keep doing what you have already done.” 

“What is that?” Nicolò asks tonelessly, his voice grating painfully in his dry throat. He is unable to stir up much curiosity through the numbness sinking into his bones. He doesn't even turn to look at the other man, rude as it is. 

“Live till dawn.” 

The peculiar advice, said with such nonchalance, is enough to startle Nicolò out of his thousand-yard stare. He looks up, a question in his furrowed brow. 

The soldier laughs, his light tone uncomfortably at odds with the busy work of his corpse-gathering hands. “Keep living until tomorrow. With the coming of dawn, you have survived another day and night; then all you must do is, well—” He pauses with a grunt as he hefts a particularly large body. It lands in the cart with a clatter and several meaty thumps. Smile intact, the man glances back at Nicolò and finishes: “Do it all over again!” 

Do it again? How can this man be smiling? Once more, Nicolò has nothing to say in reply. It’s as though his brains were replaced with wool sometime in the night. Nicolò stares wordlessly at the man, who—apparently not expecting nor requiring a response—moves to the head of the cart and begins to lead the horse away. The animal strains to move its heavy load over the uneven ground. 

Nicolò watches until the strange soldier and his cartful of bodies disappear around the bend of a nearby hill. Then he shakes himself and glances around, feeling marginally more alert. This time he looks past the death and notices other people walking amongst the bodies. More carts and horses, more soldiers retrieving the dead. 

He should get up and do something. What is he meant to be doing? Nicolò rubs a hand over his dirty face, already exhausted. He had not expected to be dealing with the aftermath. 

At that moment, his chest twinges in pain, and yesterday’s battle comes roaring back into his thoughts. He had been stabbed. No, he had been  _ run through _ . 

Nicolò stares down at himself. There is a huge bloodstain marring his front, dried and brown. He remembers how profusely he had bled, how quickly he had faded from consciousness—from life, or so he had thought; so he had  _ known _ . Yet he is still here today. 

“Blessed,” Nicolò murmurs wonderingly in his native Genoese. Maybe it is so. 

When he eventually finds the strength to stagger to his feet, he casts his eyes around, seeking his would-be-killer. The man could not have gone far, even if he had not fallen immediately as Nicolò had done. 

But Nicolò does not recognize any of the foreign bodies nearby. Admittedly, he had not had much time to look before they were killing each other, but he suspects the image will not easily fade from his memory. Those deep brown eyes; the fierce expression on his bearded face fading into something else that looked almost like surprise, when they froze impaled on each other’s blades. No, Nicolò will not forget. 

Perhaps the man had been able to flee some distance before perishing. Or perhaps… Nicolò would not have believed the foreigner could have survived, but he had not believed it of himself either. And yet. 

Shaking his head, Nicolò tries to rouse himself from useless speculation. What does it matter what happened to a single enemy soldier? No matter that his was the only life Nicolò has ever taken. The thought threatens to overwhelm him, but he must not let it—his was a righteous kill and not a sin,  _ deus vult _ , God wills it, He must. 

Nicolò miraculously survived yesterday, and so he will have to take more lives in the next battle; God would not have spared him without purpose. 

So decided, Nicolò sheaths his sword and begins to trudge in the direction of the camp. He had fallen more in the thick of the battle than the fringes, and now he takes care to pick his path through the truly fallen. 

In retrospect, he is not sure how he made it so far onto the battlefield before his first kill and his first significant wound. Nicolò had not been to war before; the chaos, the madness, the earsplitting cacophony had turned him around until he was no longer sure which direction he was meant to be going. He had dodged and parried a few swings, caught an arrow on his shield, and shortly after somehow lost his shield entirely—but he never stopped moving, inexorably caught up in some invisible current pushing him deeper and deeper into the battle. 

He remembers being struck by the feeling that something was leading him, but to where, he does not know. His path ended abruptly with an enemy stopping short in front of him. Nicolò had hesitated for a bare moment, sword gleaming and heavy in his hand. Then, as one, their blades had struck—and that had been the end. Nicolò will never see him again. 

But Nicolò is alive, and his enemies lie dead amongst his allies, and soon he must do it all again. 

“Canticum graduum ad Dominum cum tribularer clamavi, et exaudivit me,” Nicolò recites quietly in Latin as he steps over one last body, the words soothing in their familiarity.  _ I call on the Lord in my distress, and he answers me. _ “Domine, libera animam meam…”  _ Save me, Oh Lord… _ † 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> † From Psalm 120 (119 in Latin Vulgate).


	3. Benedic Domine, Qui Sanat Omnes Infirmitates Tuas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: Praise the Lord, who heals all your diseases. From Psalm 103 (102 in Latin Vulgate). 
> 
> Nicolò realizes something is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you imagine going to war, dying almost immediately, and then waking up to find you are totally fine? Mental breakdown.

Nicolò strips off his armor once in the privacy of his small tent. He had shared with several other Genoese for the few days since their arrival, but they are nowhere to be seen. He eyes their bedrolls and wonders if he will have a reprieve from the snoring to which he has grown accustomed. Instantly ashamed by the callousness of the thought, he whispers a quick prayer for his compatriots before forcing his attention to practical matters. 

Unlike the knights, the wealthy, or simply the better prepared, Nicolò came to war without a set of mail. He had no money from his priesthood nor funds from group campaigns, and his departure from Genoa had been hasty to say the least. A mail shirt would have turned aside the foreigner’s blade, but Nicolò’s basic gambeson* was not enough—although it had, apparently, protected him from a mortal blow. 

It is more than he had expected, truthfully; he spent his passage over the seas praying and preparing for death. His superiors had certainly not expected him to live for very long—but no, he should not say such things. There is no point thinking ill of his brothers now. 

He unbuckles his sword belt first, leaning the sheathed weapon against a center tent pole. It will need cleaning. Then comes his helmet; unidentifiable stains cover the spare piece of cloth it was wrapped in for reducing the heat and glare. Next he pulls the bloodstained gambeson off and sets it aside to inspect later, glad to be rid of its oppressive heat. His sleeved undershirt is soaked with sweat and even more dried blood, uncomfortably wet and rough, and he casts it aside as well. Bare to the waist, Nicolò stands alone in his tent and stares down at his dirty chest. 

He cannot see a wound. 

Nicolò fumbles to locate his waterskin by his bedroll. He wets a cleaner section of his undershirt and scrubs at his skin, clearing it of the worst of the blood. He wipes again and again, until finally he is forced to admit defeat. 

There is nothing. His chest is smooth and unblemished, if grimy still. He quickly checks his arms, pats his face, and twists around in a futile attempt to look at his back, but he cannot find a single injury. 

He sits heavily on the ground, breath leaving him in a rush. What was the blood from, if not the sword that had entered his chest? Had he only dreamed feeling the blade deep within him? 

Nicolò takes a deep drink from his waterskin with shaking hands. Then he scrambles on his knees to reach his gambeson, snatching it up and examining the front. His fingers locate and tentatively slip through a neat tear in the center of the bloodstain. He can put his fingers all the way through and out the back. He checks his undershirt as well, finding a matching set of holes. Another long look at his unscathed chest nearly sends him into shock. 

“Mio Dio,” he whispers.  _ My God.  _

* * *

Nicolò avoids speaking to anyone for the remainder of the day. He dresses himself in his full armor again, despite the growing heat as the sun continues to ascend. He tracks down a meal, bolting it down without tasting it, and then follows a group of soldiers to assist in digging a mass grave. 

He shovels mindlessly for what feels like days. The dead bodies pile up, carted from the battlefield like so much garbage. He does not want to look at them. He cannot stop looking at them. So many lives already gone. So much waste. But Nicolò lives on, and he does not know why. 

When eventually he nearly collapses face-first into the grave, a supervising knight orders him to return to camp to recuperate. Hot, thirsty, and trembling, Nicolò reluctantly obeys. 

Without the physical labor, Nicolò turns to prayer to keep his thoughts and questions at bay. 

“Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum,” he mutters, hands gripping each other tightly as he kneels in the empty tent.  _ Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name _ .† 

“Adveniat regnum tuum.”  _ Thy kingdom come _ . 

“Fiat—” His voice breaks, and he tries again. “Fiat voluntas tua.”  _ Thy will be done _ . 

He prays until his voice is hoarse and the call to battle rings through the camp once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * A [gambeson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gambeson) is a type of armor worn on the torso. It was usually made of quilted, padded cloth, and though it could be worn underneath the much more effective mail shirts of knights, poorer men sometimes wore a gambeson as their main piece of armor.** Example images [one](https://i.etsystatic.com/12480620/r/il/2248c9/2236532164/il_570xN.2236532164_qjy8.jpg) and [two](https://www.medievalcollectibles.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/MCI-3125.jpg). (back to story)
> 
> ** I was originally just going to give Nicolò standard armor for a First Crusade knight, but then as I continued to research, I realized it would be pretty difficult for him to die from anything but seriously crushing blunt force or a stab through the faceplate (there’s a reason that type of armor stuck around for a long time)—and that was just too brutal and limiting for what I wanted. So then I had to find something else for him to wear, and then I had to make up a backstory for why he was only wearing poor man’s armor… it kind of got away from me. (back to story)
> 
> † From Pater Noster (Our Father), or The Lord's Prayer.


	4. Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cycle becomes evident; tomorrow has not come, and yesterday is here again.

Nicolò marches to war a second time. It is no less horrific than the first. 

This time he doesn’t even have a shield, having lost it the day before. He troops dazedly into battle armored only by his torn gambeson, clutching his longsword. 

It takes a glancing blow to the back of his unprotected sword hand to bring him back to himself. He hisses at the pain and swats the offender’s scimitar away with the flat of his own blade. Someone else runs the foreigner through before Nicolò can, but he is paying attention now. 

He moves deeper into the chaos, sword at the ready. Blood drips from his hand, making the hilt difficult to grasp. He isn’t sure what to do, whom to attack. Nicolò should be charging at anyone with dark skin, or a turban, anyone who doesn’t look like him—but he hesitates. 

A horse rushes by him too closely, and he is shoved aside by the rider’s leg. He staggers hard into someone else, a man with a knight’s surcoat but no helmet. The man turns to look, and so he doesn’t see the sabre coming until his throat is already cut. The knight falls at Nicolò’s side. 

Dodging away instinctively, Nicolò looks up and finds himself staring into a familiar pair of brown eyes. He halts in his tracks, pinned in place by the intense gaze. 

“Sei tu,” Nicolò says dumbly.  _ It’s you. _ The man he killed. The man who by all rights should have killed Nicolò. And yet here they both stand. 

His enemy’s eyes are wide with surprise; his mouth moves slowly, though Nicolò can hear no words above the clamor of combat. 

Nicolò’s gaze drops to the foreigner’s chest. He sees the bloodstain against the light cloth immediately, marking the path his blade took. He flicks his eyes back up to the man’s and startles at the dawning understanding he sees there. 

Abruptly, Nicolò is set alight with a righteous fury. There is nothing he wants to share with this man. The few seconds they have spent watching each other are too many. 

Perhaps this is why Nicolò survived: he failed to kill this soldier yesterday. He has been brought back to finish his mission. Nicolò will not waste the gift he has been given; he will fulfill his duty, and then he may be granted rest. 

The holy purpose lends him speed. He failed the first time, but he can fix his mistake now. Nicolò darts forward and plunges his sword back into the man’s chest before he can react. The blade sinks deep from the force of his thrust. Fresh blood bubbles up and streams around the metal. Nicolò stares at him, at his surprise, and waits for him to die. 

The soldier’s face twists into a snarl, and suddenly there is a sword in Nicolò’s gut. He cries out in pain and shock, but he refuses to look away. He fights to keep his grip on his slippery sword hilt, fights to keep standing. 

This time, he sees the soldier die. Their gazes stay locked together just as their bodies remain locked in their deadly embrace, and Nicolò watches something fade from those dark brown eyes. The man slumps slowly to the ground. Nicolò follows, drawn down with him by the swords linking them together. 

On his knees, Nicolò waits for the man to draw breath. He doesn’t. The man’s hand slips from his weapon and falls limply to the ground. 

Satisfied, Nicolò lets himself fall to the side. The blade in his gut pains him with every inhale and exhale, and nausea rolls through his body. But he has done it. 

Nicolò raises his eyes to the sky. It is another cloudless day. The relief of accomplishing what he was meant to do sweeps through him, and his body relaxes against the ground as he once again stares up into the blue. This time, he has earned the beautiful sight that will lead him gently to his final rest. 

“Grazie,” he whispers.  _ Thank you.  _ “Grazie.” He dies with his eyes open. 

* * *

The sky is the first thing Nicolò sees. Cold and pale. He watches it for a few minutes, disoriented and drifting. 

“Bon matin!” A voice jerks him from his reverie. 

Nicolò sits up abruptly, then doubles over with a groan at the sudden stab of pain in his belly. 

“Woah there,” the voice chuckles. “You may have survived the night, my friend, but be careful not to overwork yourself.” The voice belongs to a man in a ragged surcoat, leading a horse-drawn cart. 

Nicolò casts his gaze around, mute with surprise. This gore-smeared scene is familiar. He has seen piles of bodies like this before—just yesterday, in fact. The man speaking to him in French is familiar, too; Nicolò saw him clearing dead soldiers from the field, just as he is doing now. 

“Good morning,” Nicolò calls, then coughs at the roughness in his throat. 

“Perhaps you should see a physician,” the man suggests as he drags a light-skinned body from beneath a dark-skinned one. 

“Perhaps,” Nicolò murmurs, still looking around. What is that phrase? If you have seen one, you have seen them all? Somehow, he does not think this extends to battlefields; this one is unnervingly recognizable, and no easier to look at for all its familiarity. 

How has he awoken here yet again? 

“You must be blessed, friend,” the soldier tells him brightly. “To have survived the night.” 

“Blessed,” Nicolò says, watching him toss a severed hand into his cart. “Yes.” 

“Now you must do it again! As long as you live till dawn every day, you will make it through the war.” The man chuckles to himself. 

Nicolò frowns. “You have already told me this.” 

This earns him a politely confused look. “Have I?” 

“Yes. Just yesterday.” 

The man grunts noncommittally and heaves another body into his cart. 

He does not wait for the man to leave, instead hurrying back to camp. The dull ache in his gut forces him to walk with a slight hunch; he hopes that means he really will require a physician. 

He finds his tent just as empty as it was yesterday. He is thankful he does not have an audience for this—though perhaps there is no need to be afraid. Perhaps it is nothing. But even as he tells himself this, the pain in his belly is fading away. 

He removes his sword, helmet, and gambeson in quick succession. As soon as he takes the gambeson in his hands to examine it, his heart sinks. There is a bloodstain and a tear—but positioned at the lower abdomen, not mid-chest. 

Nicolò lets out a slow breath. He looks down at his undershirt and finds the same. He draws up the shirt slowly. His abdomen is smeared with dried blood and some other unknown substances. He probes at the skin and feels no pain, finds no wound. 

He lifts his shirt higher and checks his chest: free of blood and injury. 

Nicolò drops the hem and lets the shirt hide his torso from view, but the reality of his unnaturally whole body remains painfully present. 

“Che cosa è questo?” he whispers.  _ What is this? _

* * *

Once he has regained control of himself, Nicolò redresses and strides purposefully around camp until he finds a familiar face. 

“Leone!” he calls. 

Leone looks up from where he sits with a bowl of food. He smiles and gives a slight wave. “Ah, Nicolò.” He pats the ground next to him. “Come, sit. I am glad to see you unharmed.” 

Nicolò sits beside him, the friendly welcome and the sound of his mother tongue soothing his shaken nerves somewhat. “I too am glad to see you well.” 

Leone had been kind to him on the ship, if distant. Nicolò thinks they might have been friends were he onboard for a less shameful reason. The rest of the crew had given Nicolò a wide berth, and when interaction was required their demeanors ranged from curt to outright disgusted. But Leone was a fresh-faced young man with an easygoing nature and a good heart; many nights Nicolò had thanked God for granting him an acquaintance with whom he could exchange friendly words on this final journey. 

“How was your first taste of battle?” Leone asks. He gestures with his spoon to the stain on Nicolò’s armor. “Perhaps I spoke too soon when I said you were unharmed.” 

Nicolò stiffens. “I am fine,” he says quickly, then hurries to change the subject. “I do not feel as though I will ever grow accustomed to battle. It was…” he trails off, not sure how to describe the madness. 

Leone nods sympathetically. “I have been advised to give it time. It has only been a day, after all.” Thankfully, his attention is focused on his food, so he does not see the way Nicolò’s head whips around. 

After a moment’s pause, Nicolò replies, “A day. Yes.” He watches Leone eat another bite. “Leone,” he starts, unsure of how to ask. 

“Mm?” 

“When did we arrive?” 

Leone quirks an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?” 

“How long has it been since we arrived here, at the camp?” 

That gets him a laugh. “Have you lost track already, Nicolò? Is the heat addling your wits?” 

When he does not respond or smile back, Leone frowns at him. “Did you hit your head yesterday?” 

“I think perhaps I may have,” Nicolò mutters. “Please, Leone, humor me.” 

“Very well. We finally ended our miserable march from Jaffa three days ago now.” 

“And we fought for the first time yesterday.” 

“Yes.” Leone is looking at him closely. “Nicolò, are you well?” 

Briefly, Nicolò considers telling him the truth. No, he is not well. There is something wrong with his memories, for he distinctly recalls two days of fighting. And there is something wrong with his body, as well, for twice now Nicolò has perished on the battlefield only to wake unharmed the next morning. 

But he knows how insane the truth would sound, and he and Leone are not so close that he can afford to sound utterly deranged. So he just nods and dredges up a slight smile. “Yes, I am fine.” 

Leone is clearly unconvinced, but he turns back to his food without comment. 

They sit in silence for a short while. Leone finishes his meal, and Nicolò watches men pass by. Some carry baskets or lead horses; some hurry and others dawdle; some are smiling, chatting with each other in various languages; and some limp by, weak and wounded. 

“Leone,” Nicolò says eventually. “What would you say our purpose is here?” 

Setting aside his empty bowl, Leone sits back, propped on his hands. “Besides baking in our skins?” he asks drily and shrugs a shoulder. “We are taking the Holy Lands back from the Muslims. It is our holy mission.” 

“Yes,” Nicolò murmurs. “Our holy mission.” 

With a sideways glance, Leone adds, “You would know, I suppose. Priest that you were.” 

Nicolò thinks about his certainty the day before, the sense of righteousness that filled him when he killed that foreign soldier. Were his duty complete, would Nicolò have not ascended instead of reawakening? God must have another purpose for him; the holy mission is not over yet. 

“Do you know,” Nicolò replies, suddenly calm with his renewed faith, “I suppose I do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nicolò finally figured out there’s something weird happening here with time. And now he’s determined!


	5. Et Quia Resurrexit Tertia Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title: He rose again the third day. From 1 Corinthians 15:4. 
> 
> Nicolò meets his match.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today!

On the third day Nicolò marches to war, he does so with a determined stride and a shield recovered from a fallen soldier. God will show him his holy duty; Nicolò has faith in this. He will start by doing a better job of fighting the war. 

Nicolò does not let himself hesitate this time. He plunges into battle with single-minded fervor, swinging his sword into the neck of an enemy soldier who does not dodge quickly enough. The man drops, clutching weakly at his wound. Nicolò steps around him and towards his next opponent. 

He fights as well as he is able, somewhat lacking in training but fueled by a fire in his soul. His sword sweeps in powerful arcs and darts in rapid stabs. He catches blades on his own and on his borrowed shield—clumsy in his defense but aggressive in his offense. 

In no time at all, Nicolò’s sword is soaked, his shield arm is numb, and his breath comes ragged in his throat. All around him, men yell and swear and scream, until his ears are ringing with noise. 

He dodges yet another horse, catching its rider’s hammer-like weapon on his shield and slashing out with his blade. He misses the soldier, instead scoring a long wound in the horse’s flank. Guilt flashes through him for a heartbeat, but then the horse is wheeling around and the rider returning for a second charge. He waits till the last second to throw himself to one side. This time his sword hits his target, and the man topples. 

Nicolò pauses to watch as the horse keeps moving, riderless, running wild through the crowd. Its flight strikes something in him, and he sends up a wordless prayer for the horse to escape safely. An animal doesn’t choose its owner, after all; it can’t help being on the wrong side of the war. 

He loses sight of the horse when a blade emerges from his chest. Nicolò chokes and staggers forward, the sword slipping free behind him with a burning pain. He whirls around unsteadily, holding his sword before him, only to nearly drop it in surprise. 

“You,” Nicolò tries to say, but there isn’t enough air in his lungs. His legs give out, and he falls hard to his knees. He can feel hot blood streaming down his chest and back. 

The man Nicolò killed yesterday is standing before him, bloodied sabre lowered at his side. He watches Nicolò calmly. His chest is still stained with old blood. His gaze flicks between Nicolò’s belly, where his sword had dealt yesterday’s killing blow, and his chest, where his sword has dealt today’s. 

Rapidly losing energy, Nicolò can no longer hold up his own sword. The tip drops to the ground, though he manages to retain his grip on the hilt. 

“I killed you,” he mouths dumbly.  _ Twice. _ God forgive him, Nicolò cannot kill this man today; he has not the strength. 

The man says nothing. He just waits. Nicolò hates him for it. 

He ends up on his side as his life rapidly drains away into the parched soil. Behind his killer, the blue sky stretches external. It is as beautiful as ever, but the soldier impedes his view of it. Nicolò hates him for that, too. 

* * *

A pale blue sky greets Nicolò when he wakes. His first feeling is relief, that God has once again gifted him with life. His second feeling is shame, that he must have failed to fulfill his holy purpose again. And finally, he feels an overwhelming anger at this undying enemy who stabbed him in the back. 

This must be his mission: to kill the man for good. 

Moving carefully around the lancing pain in his chest, Nicolò rises and glances around. It seems he has awoken in the same place on the same battlefield yet again. Turning, he sees the soldier with his horse and cart and incongruous smile. 

“Bon matin!” the man says to him. 

“Bon matin,” Nicolò replies readily. “Have we met?” 

The man gives him a perplexed smile. “I do not believe we have, friend. Nevertheless, allow me to offer my congratulations on surviving the night.” 

Nicolò nods, having expected such an answer. The man had not remembered him yesterday, either. “Thank you,” he says belatedly. 

“You must be blessed!” 

“Yes,” Nicolò agrees, already walking towards the camp. “Indeed I must.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They aren’t getting along.


End file.
